


we are bad news (well HE is)

by apiphile, jar



Series: Peeniverse [1]
Category: Fall Out Boy, Gym Class Heroes, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Acceptance, Alcohol, Claiming, D/s, Farce, M/M, Pee, Summer of Like, Watersports, cigarette burns, co-writing, drinky-crow Gerard, genuinely disgusting, hot-rrible, traumatising swear_jar, ungodly amounts of pee
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-07
Updated: 2010-04-07
Packaged: 2017-10-08 18:32:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/78347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apiphile/pseuds/apiphile, https://archiveofourown.org/users/jar/pseuds/jar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It started when Pete accidentally got engaged to Mikeyway. It's not really his fault, he was coming at the time. How was he to know it would end with Frank running naked through hotel corridors wearing only a boy scout's scarf, screaming for lube?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Also: Summer of Like, but with some time-line reshuffling because we like writing drinky!Gerard.

  
It started when Pete accidentally got engaged to Mikeyway. It's not really his fault, he was coming at the time. How was he to know it would end with Frank running naked through hotel corridors wearing only a boy scout's scarf, screaming for lube?

* * *

**ONE**

The moment it begins is an emotional and tender one;

"Fuck, yes, Mikey-- marry me," Pete chokes out, his throat tight and his mind full of important thoughts.

Mikey actually _stops_ blowing him, to answer: "Really? Yeah, okay, _yes_."

It's not even late at night. It ought to be, but on the road you take time where it comes, and the afternoon was made for blowjobs. Much like Mikey's mouth and Pete's dick. Truly it is a combination made in heaven. Pete looks at his dick. Something is missing and there are noises when there shouldn't be noises – oh, Mikey is _talking_.

The hell is Mikey talking about? And why is he talking _at all_? Pete looks down at Mikey, shiny red lips _[thisclose]_ to Pete's dick but not actually on it. "Really! Really, I swear, yes, definitely-- don't stop," Pete says. He is quite sure that whatever he's just agreed to cannot be worse than Mikey stopping in the middle of giving head. He doesn't get a chance to really think before (thank God) Mikey's hands and mouth are back on him and he's coming, just like that. Coming, once more, so hard that he thinks he might have turned his balls inside-out.

"Oh dude, that was fucking, nnrgh," Pete's voice kind of disintegrates into satisfied nothingness. His bones are Jello. His heart is the size of an elephant's ballbag. Life is awesome and this right here is the afterglow. He pats Mikey on the head.

"You mean it?" Mikey's asking, and Pete thinks, _of course I fucking mean it, Mikeyway gives great head_ then, _wait, what?_ And finally:

_Oh fuck._

He looks at Mikey's face - _nnngggh that mouth_ \- and replays the conversation in his head, carefully editing around the sex bits like a TV censor so he can actually fucking concentrate on the, the, the, y'know, words.

Then he thinks _Oh fuck_ again, because that really is the only possible response.

_Oh fuck oh fuck oh SHIT._

* * *

**TWO**

So they're all drinking, because this is a new and original and untried-before solution to boredom on tour. But they are at least drinking in a bar. _Kind of_. Technically it's a low-ceilinged room in fucking nowhere with someone showing up with bottles of Jack but in theory it's a bar. It has a license. It _probably_ has a license. It would be nice if it had actual glasses but you can't have everything.

And there are cigarettes and there is sweat in the air and someone has taken their trainers off because the stink of feet is totally overpowering the stink of smoke and booze and half of them haven't taken their stage make-up off and Frank has the giggles and his hands locked around a bottle that Gerard is trying to take from him by force. Gerard is not really succeeding; Frank is all but shoving the butt of the bottle into his own spleen.

Pete identifies the feet smell when Gerard's fingers slip on Frank's bottle and he falls on his back with a thump, and it's worth noting that it's not actually feet-- it's just Gerard-smell, somehow doing an impressive impression of trainers worn too long in summer without socks, with only the power of his pits.

And it's all pretty good until Mikey pokes him in the side and says, "Tell them," loud enough for everyone to hear.

He doesn't want to marry Mikeyway. He wants to write break-up songs about him, take him to water parks under the pretence of fun and make him_wash_, bury his hands in his fucked up hair and fuck him (a lot) and, and, and possibly stalk him a bit, but he does not want to marry him. He is not, after all, a girl.

So he says: "Hemmy peed on my shoes the other day. Like, when I was wearing them." And he does not look at Mikey at all.

He thanks God for liquor when people start laughing. Frank actually slides off from where he's perched on Bob's back and onto the ground, landing in a heap of giggles, half on top of Gerard. Who still hasn't bothered to move, apparently pleased enough to mumble at the mysterious stains on the ceiling.

"That's how dogs claim things," Gerard stops communicating with the ceiling long enough to contribute. Frank rolls around more violently with laughter, ending up leaning against Pete's feet. He has big, big eyes filled up with laughter-tears and he has Jack Daniels all over his shirt in big amber stains.

Bob reaches down and steals the bottle before any more of it can get wasted.

"Wait," Pete says, because wait, that is _awesome_, "wait, seriously?" he asks, boggle-eyed. "That is the best thing I have ever heard," and Pete undoes his fly, because seriously! Mikey's right there! Mikey's _his_! And Frank looks kind of pretty, on the floor looking up with flushed cheeks and laughter-damp eyes. And Gerard is kind of hot too, even though he's probably about five minutes away from puking his guts out and probably it's rude to pee on the brother of the guy you're dating. Whatever. That kind of etiquette is passé.

He's poised and ready. Well, he has his hand on his dick, which is – under almost all circumstances ever – the equivalent.

"No, Pete."

_Damn it._

Patrick's hand is on his arm. He didn't even know Patrick was there. Patrick is NinjaStump right now, looming from the shadows to interfere with Pete's dick-related fun. Boo. Hiss.

"But--"

"Pete. Put your dick away." Patrick sounds weary, like he's repeating a line he's said many times before. It may be because he is.

Pete's still not into the idea of actually making eye contact with Mikey again, say, ever. Frank is still giggling himself stupid on the floor like he's stuck in a loop, and Gerard is practically comatose, so as he lets Patrick drag him away for attempts at sleep, he goes to wave at Bob. With his dick, because he doesn't believe on getting it out for _no_ reason, come on. But Bob isn't actually paying any attention, just kind of standing there staring, eyes wide, looking down at Frank.

* * *

**THREE**

Pete doesn't really give up all that easy, of course; so it's only the next stop in the tour, the next day, while that conversation's still gotta be fresh in everyone's minds (except maybe Gerard's because it's not all that certain Gerard remembers saying shit or even the last week), when he's sitting in _their_ bus and there's a stack of white plastic cups on the side. Why it's there, no one knows. No one cares.

He takes one of the cups out, shakes it out from the others, snakes his dick out of his jeans and pisses into the cup with Mikey sitting right there beside him.

Mikey watches him but says nothing. Just … fucking nothing. Like he doesn't get it.

His dick's floating in a sea of pee in the cup (because he really needs to stop treating energy drinks like they're a food group in their own right) and the cup's hot and Mikey's still staring at him like he's grown an extra head, probably … oh. Pete takes his dick out of the cup and shakes it off. Probably because he thinks this is some sort of STD test thing.

So Pete says, "OH MY GOD THE ITCHING," because Pete is nothing if not a _complete and total dick_.

Mikey stares at him some more, all smudgy eyes uninterested pout and one condescending eyebrow raised over his glasses, and it's quite tempting to upend it right over Mikey's head now, just to see what he'd do, but Pete just gallops out of the bus with the cup in his hand and a look of determination etched across his face like a parcel tag.

And he steps out into the air and Mikey's behind him and finally he says, "What the fuck are you _doing_?" In a tone more likely to be found around enquiries about the weather and "nice day for it"s, than questions about what Pete is going to do with a plastic cup of his own urine.

Which is kinda a reasonable question.

Pete lifts the cup like he's proposing a toast and says in a very dignified voice, "I'm going shopping for a _man_!" Pete brandishes the pee, trying not to spill it over his hand and accidentally claim himself and also ruin his hoodie. By making it stink of pee.

Mikey stares at him some more. You know. For the novelty. "What?"

In a fit of inspiration Pete points the pee-cup in the general direction of the backstage compound and shouts to anyone who happens to be passing – pretty much the whole world - "I'm going MANSHOPPING!"

* * *

**FOUR**

Bob loves that Frank is a physical person, a whirlwind of affection and elbows, a loving black eye and a friendly crash that's the sound of Bob's drums being murdered on stage.

It's just sometimes, he fantasies about telling Frank _no._

No flailing, no kicking, no climbing, no piggyback rides, and no fucking _spitting_.

Nothing weird about that. He's fairly sure everyone in the band has had fantasies about tying Frank down. Hyperactive little shit.

He's also fairly sure no one else in the band jerks off to them. That's the part that's kind of weird.

It's just, Frank is constantly all over Bob, like Bob is his property, to clamber over as he wishes, a big blonde jungle gym, like it's totally his God given right to dig his knees into Bob's sides and shout ONWARD, TO LIQUOR when they're both totally drunk and Gerard's cleaned the bus out of everything alcoholic.

Bob jerks off to the thought of Frank on his knees, naked, pretty green eyes wide and ringed with dark lashes, hands tied in front of his chest with his own stupid pink belt, Bob's hand in his hair, coming on Frank's face. Showing Frank he is owned. He's _Bob's_.

It's only kind of weird though. Bob can handle it. So he has to go jerk off every time Frank climbs on him and he thinks, _God, I could just throw him off right now, flat on your back in the dirt looking up at me._ He can handle it.

And then Pete Wentz gets his dick out and ruins everything. Bob suspects that that sentence has been uttered thousands of times, but he's still kind of disgusted that he's saying it himself.

Bob can handle a bit of bandmates and bondage in his fantasy life, but when he jerks off and the image that actually gets him off leaves him feeling shaky, and not just because he's feels like he's come his brain out, it is: naked colourful Frank in his head rolls over, black ink scorpion crawling over the column of his exposed throat, and Bob just wants to take his dick in hand a piss all over him, yellow spattering wetly over Frank's chest and neck, Bob can practically smell himself all over Frank-- claiming him. Mine mine mine-- and he's coming into a hastily grabbed sock that smells suspiciously like it was Gerard's originally, though that could also be because he found it pressed down the side of his bunk mattress where it's likely been for several days since he last used it for just this.

So, Bob starts to feel a little unsettled. Also, kind of pissed off. About pissing on. Hah. Also, kind of _inspired_.

God, he hates Pete Wentz.

So, while elsewhere at that exact moment Pete is throwing pee at William Beckett (because he _can_ and Beckett brings it on himself by looking like a fucking girl, as Pete explains once people have stopped throwing things at him), Bob Bryar has a lukewarm cup in hand and Frank Iero in his sights.

"Did you just hear someone yell 'not the face, Pete'?" Frank turns around, shoulders slumped, cigarette hanging from his lips, eyebrows raised. Totally hot and entirely ruining Bob's plan.

"No…." Bob says, even though he thinks he may have. To reiterate, he hates Pete Wentz and everything is his fault. "And god I hope it wasn't Mikey, the mental images hurt."

"What would they—"

"Let's not mention this to Gerard."

"I am _so_ telling Gerard," Frank says, full of unholy glee. Of course.

All of which is distracting Bob from his original purpose, which is rapidly cooling in his hand.

"Frank, turn around," Bob tries. Because he's really not sure how to ask Frank if he can throw pee on him and had kind of planned on using the element of surprise. He's heard that the element of surprise is useful when you don't have quite Pete _fucking fucking_ Wentz's levels of pee-related audacity.

God he is so sick of the words "pee" and "Pete Wentz" being in such close proximity.

"Why?" Frank asks, and blows smoke at Bob.

"Just do it," Bob knows he's lost.

"Why?" Frank asks again, and the brattiness is rapidly flooding his tone.

"Just, turn around," Bob says, and gestures with the hand that's holding his cup and actually sloshes pee over himself, every drop soaking into his hoodie sleeve. Well, he owns himself. Great. It's not like he can jerk off anymore than he already does anyway.

"Why, why, _why_?" Frank asks and Bob barely has time to think before Frank's all over him, knees digging into every soft place on Bob's torso as he climbs him like a tree, settling on Bob's back. Bob's face is burning by the time Frank settles himself on him, plastered against Bob, the crotch of his jeans tight against Bob's lower back, his sweaty arms over Bob's shoulders.

Miraculously, Bob doesn't spill piss over them both. Then realises, damn it, that could have worked. He could have spilled piss over them both. That would have been cheating but – hell, it's not like Wentz wasn't fucking cheating from the get-go.

"The hell are you drinking, Bobert?" Frank says against Bob's hot ear, pulling the arm he's holding the cup in up with rough tattooed fingers, sniffing at it over Bob's shoulder. "Smell like piss."

Frank is high enough off the ground that he doesn't even accidentally get any on his shoes when Bob drops it to the dead grass in despair.

* * *

**FIVE**

So Pete's just casually standing there, peeing on Joe's shoes. Joe is stoned and chilling out on a banana lounge in front of a kiddy pool and blow up palm tree, like a mini oasis between buses, see, so he's not all that fussed. Couple of brewskis in a cooler next to him, within arms reach. He looks totally relaxed and ridiculously hot.

"Hey Pete?" Joe asks, kind of kicking his foot a little in the stream.

"Yeah, dude?" Pete replies, eyes focussed on shaking his own dick off.

"Why are you, you know," Joe gestures at Pete's dick, hanging out of his pants.

"Claiming you for sexy times," Pete says, grinning with teeth.

"Oh, alrighty," Joe says, then frowns. Kicks his darker than usual sneaker so a few drops of pee fly off. "Can I have your shoes when we go on later?"

"Uh," Pete says, "you can have a pair of Patrick's."

* * *

Travis does actually catch him. Because Pete sometimes forgets that while he is _fast_, his legs are equivalent in length to the average twelve-year-old's, whereas Travis's legs are equivalent in length to the average twelve year old. All of them.

Travis grabs him around the waist, winding Pete a little with his own momentum against Travis's forearms, and getting his own piss all over him from where it's soaked into Travis's shirt, now pressed up against his back. Travis hoists him up and spins him upside down so fast Pete's not sure which way is up until it's too late—Travis's arms are locked around his knees and his head is being dunked into the nearest cooler, half melted ice and the taste of a hundred dirty beer groping hands. He smacks his head on a can and gets filthy water up his nose.

Pete sits down where Travis dumps him, knees folded like a kindergartener, sputtering and rubbing at his eyes with both fists. Pete's hands come away from his face smeared grey-black with eyeliner. Great. He's got panda eyes. And then he thinks about his hair, fuck.

"My hair, fuck!" Pete says, touching the wet strands that are laying messy and soaked across his forehead.

"You brought this on yourself," Travis says, calmly, looking down from about fifty feet above Pete.

Pete looks up at him and pouts as hard as he possibly can.

"Cheer up, emo panda," Travis says, and laughs at him. "You owe me a shirt, bitch."

* * *

Pete shoves the clean (for certain definitions of clean) shirt he's stolen from Mikey over his head and admires himself in the bathroom mirror. It's Mikey's favourite Iron Maiden shirt. Well, Mikey had said _whatever_ when Pete asked if he could borrow a shirt because his was covered in pee, and whatever means _whatever, Pete, you can put my favourite shirt on over your pee-soaked self_ in Pete's language. Which is totally the one true language everyone should be speaking.

So he's standing there, wearing Mikey's shirt, and he thinks, _hey wait. Gerard is here somewhere._

When Pete comes out of My Chem's bathroom, he's holding a borrowed toothbrush holder full of pee. My Little Ponies dance around the outside of the cup, frolicking gaily around Pete's warm pee.

He feels kind of bad because Gerard is asleep, and looks kind of like a pale round faced angel from some kind of ancient religious painting, except he's fairly sure that angels don't smell like sweated out booze and that indefinable touring WayFunk that Gerard and Mikey seem to be the only people on earth capable of manufacturing. And by "feels kind of bad" he means "feels kind of turned on" (seriously, once you're used to that Way smell, Pete swears it's like a Pavolvian thing, Gerard and Mikey smell the same and Pete's so used to getting sexy in close proximity to Mikey's smell, ipso facto [_thank you late-night Wikipedia_]: Pete's kind of got a semi).

So one of Pete's hands is holding back the bunk curtain and one is holding the My Little Pony toothbrush holder full of pee and he tilts it so it spills a thin stream down over Gerard's chest, soaking into Gerard's ridiculous skeleton PJs.

He's hoping Gerard doesn't wake up. He's half-hoping Mikey doesn't come looking for him, but he's also half-hoping Mikey does. Pete shakes the last drop out of the cup and it accidentally flicks up, landing softly against Gerard's cheek. Oops.

Gerard stirs, brow creased, sniffing for a second. Pete freezes. Gerard rubs his eyes and mumbles: "... Bert?"

Pete bolts back to the lounge, both hands clapped over his mouth to hold in the cackling, leaving the empty plastic cup spinning on the ground between the bunks.

Mikey's still slumped on the couch when he bursts back into the lounge, panda-eyed with huge shades, boneless as a thing with no bones. A jellyfish. A big emo jellyfish.

Pete stands there for a minute, grinning and waits for Mikey to say something. Pete twists his hand up in the hem of Mikey's shirt, riding it up a few inches so there's a nice gap of abs and happytrail between his shirt and jeans, stretching it horribly at the same time.

"You don't even want to know, dude," Pete laughs a little too loud and bounces on the balls of his feet.

"You're right, I don't," Mikey says. He doesn't move. Pete's not even sure he moved his mouth. Pete's face flushes hot.

"You know what you do wanna know about? I don't even wanna know either," and Pete kicks something indiscriminately on the way out, unsatisfied with the soft thump it produces when it hits a wall. He just wants not to marry Mikey, which doesn't mean he doesn't want his undivided attention at all times— he forces a smirk onto his face as he stomps down the bus steps, even though he's not really joking.

* * *

Pete's wandering around the backstage area, contemplating who he feels deserves his sacred pee, when like some kind of holy sign from the Gods of Rock'n'Roll and... the Gods of… also pee... he hears the beginning of Give 'Em Hell Kid and when he finally gets a good spot side-stage (standing on a box he probably shouldn't be, but everyone is taller than him, so it's basically their fault if he breaks something), he finds Frank Iero playing to _him_ (the side of the stage he's on, whatever), bent over backwards so his two-tone hair brushes the stage floor, knees bent underneath himself, playing hard and fast, his hands lightning over his crotch, practically asking to be peed on.

Pete steals two cans of Red Bull out of someone's cooler on his way back through the buses. Frank Iero is pretty and Pete is going to have him. He downs the first can in two goes. He is going to have Frank Iero and a massive caffeine high.

Excellent.

* * *

So he's going to pee on Frank and the cup in his hand is full of violently yellow pee because he actually stole two more energy drinks from the Gee-Sea-Aich's bus on his way past so he's had four now which is good because now he has a whole lot of pee in the cup and okay some of it on his hand because his hand _might_ be a little shaky and at some point he's going to have to start using punctuation again inside his own head but fuck if he doesn't need it on the internet he doesn't need it there either Jesus Christ he loves caffeine –

Frank and Bob are both leaning against the My Chem bus, smoking, when Pete catches sight of them. Pete's thinking about strategy: abruptly, various ridiculous scenarios flit through his mind, but he settles pretty firmly on "throw pee, run very fast".

"Hey, Frank!" Pete yells, and both Bob and Frank turn around - Frank looks bored. Bob looks horrified. Pete hadn't really factored Bob-related interference into his intricate strategy. Bob's wide eyes glance between Pete's face and the cup Pete's holding about six times - then it's kind of like a car crash. Pete is the car and Bob is the dude throwing himself under it in slow motion and Pete knows there is no way of preventing the collision.

They both end up on the ground.

Pete's thrown his pee and his cup directly backwards over his shoulder. There's no startled yelping, so he assumes he hasn't hit anyone by accident, not even Frank. Damn it.

The first thing Bob says to him is: "No."

"It's not like I was gonna get it on _you_," Pete hisses, getting up with absolutely no help from Bob, who is standing over him staring down. Pete brushes dirt off the back of his head. "And how did you even _know?_"

"No." Bob repeats and Pete doesn't think Bob's answering him, doesn't think he actually heard him at all, it sounds more like he's making a statement about Pete's existence in general.

"Have _you_ peed on him?" Pete asks, narrowing his eyes.

"No," Bob says. Again.

"Then he's fair game," Pete says, because it's absolutely true and Bob isn't playing by the rules, damn it.

"_No._"

"Whatever, Bryar. We'll see," Pete says darkly. Drat, foiled! Pete wishes he had a curled moustache and pointy beard of evil to stroke while he contemplates his revenge. He makes do with stroking his chin thoughtfully. It kinda helps move the thoughts along.

* * *

**SIX**

It's a good gig. The crowd are full of energy, Gerard is full of preachy fire, Frank seems to be spending most of his time on his knees, which is not good news for Bob's libido but seems to be keeping the twelve-year-olds in the front row deliriously happy.

Bob's got other shit on his mind, though; it's a gig, and the one predictable thing about Frank Iero is that at some point he will wheel over to the drums and be annoying as a very annoying thing and climb all over the drum kit because words like "expensive" and "get off my fucking drums" don't penetrate when he's high on sing-a-long adrenaline. Predictable in this case means he can plan ahead, and planning ahead in this case means that just by his foot, out of the way of pedal-range but close enough that he can swoop down and grab it when he needs to, is Plan B.

Plan B is a white plastic cup from backstage. Plan B is three-quarters full of Bob's pee. That's a lot of pee, but Bob wants to make sure, and he was feeling sick last night, so he drank a lot of water, and he's been holding it in, and ... there's a cup of pee, anyhow. And as soon as Frank gets his unfairly hot and distracting butt over to the drums and starts climbing on them Bob will have a perfectly rational excuse to tip pee over him.

... okay, maybe not perfectly rational. But _an_ excuse.

They're thundering towards the end of Thank You For The Venom. Bob's wondering if Frank's going to come over and be a pain in the ass between songs or during one, if he's going to have to try to stumble back into the rhythm or whether he'll have a moment to fling his pee without fucking up a song, when there's a movement in the corner of his eye.

At first Bob thinks, _roadie_.

It's not a roadie.

It's Pete fucking Wentz. He deserves that epithet. Bob's already tense, his rhythm's there but it's not quite _on_ anymore, and he tries to glance at the jerk without actually acknowledging that he's there –

The song winds down. Gerard compliments the audience on being awesome and randomly cuddles Frank from one side, so if Bob throws pee on him _now_ Frank'll probably just be grateful for anything that drowns out the WayFunk.

– Frank breaks away, already plucking at strings as Gerard introduces the next song (The Ghost of You, something easier on Bob), and spirals aimlessly back towards the drums.

Bob's ready, tense as a drumskin, thinking he should pick up the cup now, but then he'd look all premeditated, because of course _otherwise_ it'll seem perfectly innocuous that he just happened to have a beaker of urine by his drums –

– like a cheetah in a fitted cap Pete Wentz shoots out of the wings, scoops up the cup and flies past the drumkit, nearly colliding with Frank as he holds the plastic vessel aloft like a trophy.

"GOT YOUR PEE!" Pete shouts. The crowd won't hear him, not from this distance, but the guys almost certainly can.

Bob wonders if prison is bad, and if he will be sent there for long after murdering Pete Wentz with a drumstick.

Meanwhile Pete bounds to the front of the stage, sploshing amber everywhere, shouts "CATCH BOB'S HER_PE_S!" and tosses the cup into the crowd.

Fortunately for the twelve-year-olds in the front row, Pete throws like a fucking girl; the cup falls short, splattering the legs of one of the security guards and wrenching a fit of the horrible hyena-giggles from Pete fucking _fucking_ Wentz's mouth.

Gerard's a bit non-plussed but he recovers okay, introducing Pete to the crowd – like they need telling – and asking him to come play a bit with them; Pete gets excited and clappy, and that's when – ohthank_God_ \- stumpy little Stump-meister darts out of the wings, mouths an apology to the band, and drags Pete away (waving, of course, the little shit) by his scruff like a bad puppy. Bob likes Patrick, but he's fairly sure he must have some deep and abiding mental problem to put up with Wentz this long.

Bob settles back, ready for the song, and catches Frank giving him a curious look. Well _fuck_.

That Wentz really is a bag of dicks.

* * *

**SEVEN**

The sun beats down on another nowhere town, and somewhere in the backstage area where the grass is brown and shrivelled, Pete Wentz stalks the blasted earth, a plastic vending machine cup clasped in his hand, the cooling warmth of his own tangy piss heating the palm of his hand through the thin white walls of the vessel.

He is going to _find_ Frank Iero and he is going to _claim_ Frank Iero and then Bob can't have him. He bites down on the "muahahaha" that should automatically follow such a thought, giggles to himself, and stalks forwards around the mysterious ping-pong table and its abandoned paddles.

The atmosphere is such that everyone might be asleep, resting from the midday sun (it really is fucking hot), except the people who actually _do_ shit, like sound techs and lighting guys and stage managers and roadies and … people … who do shit …

From the other side of the backstage area Bob emerges from the portapotty, clutching in his hand something white and small and suspiciously cuplike. He stands in the doorway, blinking, bleary, and blond, and spots Pete. Pete can see his eyes narrow, and the whistling begins somewhere away to his left.

He's just about recognised it as the _High Noon_ theme and located the source when the roadie grins at him and goes away to pick up something heavy. Pete stares back at Bob, only Bob's not in the threshold anymore, he's on the heat-murdered grass moving with purpose and a plastic cup of piss in his hand.

There should be tumbleweed, Pete realises. He also narrows his eyes, because it's sunny and his sunglasses have gone for a walk somewhere, possibly on Joe's face, and Bob's right there – he could just throw this pee over Bob, but that would be a waste. And Bob would still have his own pee, and Pete would have to drink more water really fast and jump up and down and _then_ go and find Frank and Bob would have a head-start.

Two arcs of golden-yellow man-stinky liquid fly in intersecting parabolas (Pete and Wikipedia are friends at 3am) of urine, like two big gay rainbows, and instead of splashing in a confused mess on the grass and probably burning through it they sail past each other and Pete's t-shirt is soggy and smelly and warm with fresh Bob-pee.

"THIS MEANS NOTHING!" Pete shouts, holding the t-shirt away from his chest. "YOU CAN'T HAVE ME! PATRICK WILL BITE YOU – " Although as soon as the words are out of his mouth he knows what he actually means is that Mikey will cry, and now there's a dilem---

_Oooh_

Bob's frantically rubbing fresh chemical-laced Pete-pee out of his face, spitting and blowing like he's been underwater, his hair dripping with it, and swearing like a trooper. Or, more accurately, like a drummer who has just been hit in the face with cup of piss intended for his bandmate.

"THAT DOESN'T MEAN ANYTHING EITHER," Pete shouts desperately, backing off as fast as he can without actually tripping over his own feet. "I DIDN'T WANT _YOU_ \- "

Bob shakes his head hard so droplets of piss fly everywhere, accidentally claiming trailers and passing technicians and some guy from some magazine with a fake pass as all being part of Pete's ever-expanding harem, which any other time would be awesome. Only _not right now_.

Pete looks at the plastic cup still in his hand. He throws it over his shoulder, flips the bird at Bob, and breaks into a skittish run.


	2. Chapter 2

**EIGHT **

Bob’s face is so red by the time he’s halfway through explaining to Frank that he’s fairly sure he is going to spontaneously combust. He hopes they will know to blame his death on Pete, and he hopes when Pete goes to prison for it he will be passed around like a pack of cigarettes and have to do push-ups in drag and all that. Pete pushed and pushed and now Bob has to ask Frank, or risk Pete getting him first. Which. No. Definitely no. So much angry, angry no. More no than he can contain.

"Basically, I just really want to pee on you," Bob finishes, face burning.

"Okay."

"What?"

"I said okay. Just let me get my shirt off."

"You ... said okay."

"Yup."

"What about if I wanted to tie you up?"

"Cool."

"And slap you about a bit?"

"Awesome."

"And ... I can really pee on you?"

"Mmm hmm."

"Frank ... is there anything you're _not_ okay with? Like, is there _anything_ you won't do, seriously ..."

Frank considers this for quite a long time. He'd look more serious if he weren't squirming out of his shirt and trying not to unbutton it as the same time. "Um ..." he flings his red tie in some unpremeditated direction. "... oh, if you gag me with one of Gerard's socks I am never ever speaking to you ever again ever." He gets stuck inside his own shirt. "And that's about it - uh. A little help, please?"

"This is why shirts have buttons."

Frank flails his ridiculous stuck arms around like mentally challenged flags. He looks like a Henson puppet having a seizure, and Bob's not sure whether to help him or do a Kermit impression. Frank stops and breathes harshly for a bit.

The white shirt is sticking here and there where it's sweaty wet and twisted, ink coming though like it's bleeding.

"Hold still," Bob says, and means it. There's an edge in his voice he barely recognizes, when he says it. Snaps it. Orders it.

Frank freezes, arms up in the air and shirt ridden halfway up his torso. He peers out at Bob where the shirt's buttons are gaping, wide eyed.

Well hey. It worked.

Bob keeps his eyes on Frank's and puts his hand flat-palmed against Frank's stomach, fingers touching the inked _and_, thumb brushing Frank's pink belt. Frank giggles, cracked and high. Which is kinda Frank all over.

Bob would laugh at Frank, still frozen with his arms up and barely able to see a thing, if his tentative fingers weren't anchored on warm skin, but they are, and Bob's fingers are steady as they brush up Frank's torso, skidding on damp skin, pushing Frank's shirt off over his head.

His voice is steady as his warm hands: "Clothes off. On your knees."

They're both externally steady and commanding, and internally giddy with what they can do. 'Hey, if I _tell_ Frank to do something, he actually _does_ it?' Why the fuck didn't he find this out sooner? Bob tries not to think about how this is also Pete's doing, because if he has to think about Pete he's going to throw up.

Frank leaves his clothing in a hasty pile on the bus floor. Bob thinks about telling Frank to pick it all up. Can't. No time. Desperately fucking ready with Frank on his knees, Bob's rapidly approaching too hard to pee straight – because dicks just have to be that fucking badly-designed, don't they? - and fuck if he doesn’t realise right then that they’re in the bus lounge.

The fucking bus lounge where Frank is currently _naked_ and on his knees in front of Bob's completely and utterly obvious even through his jeans hard-on and Gerard or Ray or Mikey or _Pete_ could walk in at any second-- Bob can't actually pee here. _That would be bad_, his brain supplies. He's not sure he believes it. He can’t think of the _why_ right now.

_Carpets_, his brain suggests, before taking a little vacation in his balls.

He has to close his eyes against naked, half-hard Frank, with his head tipped up to look at Bob and his neck exposed and fucking asking to be _marked_. "Bathroom,” Bob snaps.

The bathroom is barely big enough for one Frank sized person, never mind the both of them. Frank has to kneel in the shower stall. Bob's got no room to move, so his hoodie gets shoved in the sink when he pulls it off, getting it caught on his wrist and banging his elbow into the wall with a loud hollow thunk, that’s not particularly painful if you don’t count how completely _suave_ it makes him look.

Frank’s got a hand on his dick and his eyes half-draped. "Are we going to do this or what?”

"Rules," Bob says. "Don't talk unless I tell you. Don't move unless I tell you." And he doesn't really recall telling Frank he could touch himself, either.

"Yeah," Frank says. Pushing. Bob slaps him. Not hard. Frank said he was okay with it, but it's not something Bob wants to fuck up – Frank head jerks to the side more from shock than the force, and the hand he's had kind of casually resting on his dick squeezes and moves. Frank turns his head back slowly, mouth open and smiling just a little.

Okay, the boundaries are somewhere _thattaway_ over the horizon and Bob is definitely going to do that again at some point. A lot. Maybe while someone can see. Frank's cheek is just the faintest bit pink, barely noticeable over their red flush, and his eyes are kind of glazed when he looks back at Bob, all big-big pupils.

"Understand?"

Frank nods his head, silent.

Bob takes a breath that he's sure everyone within a mile can hear, harsh and deep, hadn't even realised he was there yet, his chest rising and falling more rapidly than a minute, half a second ago.

Bob pops the top button on his pants and keeps his eyes on Frank. Frank's hand has slowed on his dick, loose and comfortable and okay, Bob has to look away from inked fingers stroking along the underside of Frank's dick, colourful knuckles and callused fingers, because otherwise he really won't be able to pee.

Bob unzips his jeans, his eyes on Frank's, barely controls his hips from jerking forward as his knuckles brush his trapped cock at the same time Frank tilts his head, just lets his head roll to the side, Adam's apple bobbing slowly as he swallows.

Bob's got his dick in his hand and no chance of this not being messy and his stomach doing cartwheels, arousal and nerves dancing through his insides to a throbbing beat: _don't fuck this up_.

"Are you -- you sure?" He wants to smack his head back against the bathroom wall (barely a few oh so convenient inches away) at the way that comes out, desperate and not even a little in control.

Frank doesn't giggle (thank fuck), but he does smile when he nods his head. _Doesn't_ speak.

Bob pushes his stubborn dick down, wants this way too much for it to be easy, fuck, this would be so much easier if he could close his eyes, but there is no way in fuck—and he lets go: piss hits Frank, tattoos and skin splash-spattered with _Bob's_ piss, fuck, his his his-- _his_ piss from his bladder from his body all over Frank's in a noisy stinking stream. Frank's eyes are closed and his chin tilted up and he's intensely, perfectly Bob's, perfectly accepting, _wanting_ it—and oh, it's messy -

\- And _fuck_, he misses Frank when his hips jerk forward into his own hand, stutter -stopping and going again, wet everywhere, the walls, then Frank's chest-thighs-throat _dick_.

Loosening his hand around his dick is fucking impossible, he can't _piss_ any more and Frank's still _right there_ on his knees (on his knees, on his knees, just for Bob, because Bob told him to get on his knees) in the dirty shower stall-all, all (Bob strokes his dick), all Bob wants to do is come on Frank's face, now.

Just wants him dirtier and wetter—just wants to, wants to kiss him filthy. Kiss him wet and ruined and _his_. Frank shuffles forward, over the edge of the shower stall, and Bob looks down at him uncomprehendingly, until Frank's lips are right there all slick and wet on his dick (his dick still wet with droplets of piss, dribbling leftover piss). Frank's (damp, dirty, wet with _him_) hand around the base of his dick: Bob fucks forward into Frank's mouth and barely gets an uneven thrust before that's it, he's coming, Frank not letting a drop spill.

Which would be hot enough to make Bob's dick twitch again _right now_, if he hadn't actually had a plan that had just been sucked out along with his greater motor functions and his ability to form sentences -- he pokes himself in the eye with a knuckle as he wipes sweat off his face, and bangs his fucking elbow again. Fucking bathroom.

His dick is still in Frank's mouth.

"Who the fuck said you could move?" Bob asks, his tone bypassing commanding and coming out fucked out and quiet rough to his own ears. He shakes his head and grabs Frank's hair, pulls his head backwards off Bob's sensitive and wilting dick, a wet line of saliva snapping slowly between them. Frank's lips are all red, shiny in a close-mouthed smirk. Frank's hand is moving on his own cock now, quick and serious, like an engine part.

"Stop," Bob says.

Frank rips his head back, pulling his hair out of Bob's grip, doesn't stop moving his hand.

“Stop,” Bob says again, a warning. The backbone's leaking back into his voice.

Frank rears back and spits Bob's come at him.

He hits Bob's chest dead center. Frank's got good aim. Like a fucking spitting cobra.

"Fuck-- nrrgh-- you," Frank says; his smirk is open-mouthed now, all gritted teeth and attitude. Brattitude.

Bob smirks back and slaps Frank again. Hard, this time. Frank's whole body jerks to the side like a puppet on strings and his hand gradually slows on his dick as he rights himself, mouth open like he's going to speak _again_, and Bob almost wants to just let him, just so he can make Frank's other cheek glow matching red. Red suits him. It really fucking suits him.

"Hands behind your back," Bob says, before Frank can talk back.

Frank puts his hands behind his back.

Bob wipes a handful of spit and come off his shirt and dangles his fingers over Frank's face. He doesn't wipe; he crouches down in front of Frank, and wraps those fingers (wet and dirty) around Frank's dick. Frank jerks and a noise breaks tide-like in his throat, half startled "fuck", half incoherent groan; his hips push up into Bob's hand, his thighs impossibly tense, arched backwards-- Frank moves a hand from behind his back towards Bob's face, close enough Bob can smell piss-arousal even stronger.

His piss, Frank's hand.

"Behind your back," Bob repeats, squeezes his hand hard around Frank's dick, hard enough Frank stops moving entirely, utterly tensely still. "Behind your back," Bob says again, and Frank does it this time.

Bob leans forward and bites Frank's neck, speeding his hand up as Frank's breathing speeds and cracked little noises spill out of his throat into Bob's ears, Frank coming over his hand.

Bob's mouth tastes like his own piss when Frank kisses him, Frank's cheek is warm against his ear, Bob’s hand his still wet-sticky when he runs it over Frank’s back, cups his neck and pushes his nose against Frank’s hair. Frank smells exactly like he's _Bob's_.

It’s pretty gross. Bob is so pissed off they haven't been doing this for days now, weeks now, fuck, since they met. He is also so pissed off that it took Pete fucking fucking _fucking_ Wentz being his own peculiar brand of asshole to get them to this. They shoulda already been here.

“You can talk,” Bob says.

“Harder, next time,” Frank says, his mouth so wet it's shining.

Bob flushes red, but he asks: “Which part?”

“All of it,” Frank says and licks Bob’s face, gets up, leaves him sitting on his ass in a wet patch of take-your-pick-of-a-fluid.

“Get me a smoke,” Bob yells over his shoulder at Frank’s naked ass; he considers putting his pants back on.

* * *

**NINE**

So Pete’s kind of pissed about Mikey ignoring him. He doesn’t care what Pete does to his brother, his favourite shirt or to his stage show. Mikey had actually played facing away from the crowd, away from Pete, the entire time he’d been foiling Bryar’s pee-related plans on stage. Hadn’t even looked at Pete once. Head down, bass up.

After several (okay, 35) ignored texts, Pete goes over the My Chem’s bus. Drags Mikey outside. Fully intending to do something grown-up about their little proposal situation, even if he can’t actually _look_ at Mikey while he does it.

"Are you going to tell them?" Mikey says plaintively. He looks like a lost kitten. Except Pete's not looking at him, so he could look like a tentacle monster for all Pete knows, _except_ Pete knows like he knows which way is up that Mikeway is looking at him like a lost kitten. Which is like, breach of copyright or some shit. Lost Kitten is Pete's schtick to pull over important things like getting his own way.

Or in this case, getting away from the Way he doesn't want to be his own Way in quite that… way.

Pete decides to have something in his ear.

"Pete?"

_Mikey you're a fantastic lay and I really like you but I do not want to spend the rest of my life with you_.

"Pete?"

_Mikey we can still be Sweet Little Dudes but I am not going to marry you. Shit, I'm probably not going to call you after this tour unless I can't sleep_.

"Pete?"

"Oh my god, Mikey, _SHUT UP_."

Mikey's back hits the bus with a satisfying thump, no more words, just a puff of startled air from his lungs across Pete’s lips. Just to be sure, Pete gets his mouth on Mikey's. He can't talk if Pete is kissing him, can't ask for anything Pete doesn't want to give a direct answer to if Pete’s tongue is in his mouth.

Mikey's whole body is tense against his for a minute before Pete feels him relax, give in, kiss back. Hard. Pete will take absolutely anything Mikey has except _words_ right now.

Mikey's hands are on his belt fast and rough and his fingernails scratch over Pete's stomach hard, scrabbling under his shirt and down to his belt.

Mikey apparently can't get into Pete's overly tight jeans fast enough, and Pete makes a frustrated noise at the same time Mikey does, and shoves Mikey's hands out of the way in favour of just plastering them together, lips to hips, and _pushing_.

It's good for a while, shoving against each other through layers of denim and cotton, spitting wordless noises into each others mouths.

Pete misses Mikey already.

Mikey pulls away first, looking at Pete, and Pete can't actually do that either, it's just as bad at the words, so he ducks his head and falls to his knees.

He's got one hand over Mikey's dick through the denim and lets it slide down to Mikey's inner thigh as he unzips Mikey's jeans.

It's actually just _then_ it occurs to Pete that, oh yeah, they're outside. It's not actually even that dark. He considers caring briefly, looking at Mikey's knees, before he’s totally distracted by Mikey’s stupid girly chicken legs that knock when he does that pigeon toed thing in photoshoots and kickball games. That thing that always makes Pete want to shove them apart and get his head between Mikey's legs, straightening them out and making his toes curl, his heal dig into Pete's back.

He looks up at Mikey and Mikey looks down, his glasses slipped down his nose so far Pete knows all he's seeing is a dark blur. It makes it easier to meet Mikey's eyes, knowing he's basically blind like this.

Pete shoves a hand into his own jeans, top button already popped and belt jingling, getting a hand on the one part of him that is entirely free of conflict, undaunted by the damp look of Mikey's eyes in the dark. Pete's dick says, "I want that," just like usual. (One of Pete's problems in life, he acknowledges, is that he never really stops wanting to fuck his exes. Even the ones he genuinely hates. His cock is entirely too forgiving. His cock is forgiving like Jesus. It’s a problem).

Pete’s other hand reaches for Mikey again, and Mikey helpfully pushes his pants off his hips so they slump down to his ankles under the weight of his studded belt.

Pete goes down fast and hard and good-sloppy as he can. Mikey doesn't bother keeping his hips still, and Pete ends up gagging a little as Mikey’s dick smacks the back of Pete's throat and above him he hears Mikey’s head thump against the bus. He comes pretty fast, pushing into Pete’s mouth, just lets himself go. Pete spits a mouthful of come into the dirt between them, breathing hard and hello, he's seriously in need of breathing right now, hadn't realised how little of that he'd actually been doing.

Mikey leans down and tugs on his arms to pull him up. Pete rights himself with a hand still in his pants and his other palm slapping down on the bus beside Mikey's head because holy fucking headspin Batman.

If Pete's was a "sorry" blowjob, Mikey gives what can only be called a "fuck you" handjob in return. He pulls Pete's hand of his own pants by the wrist so hard Pete actually winces when he can't untangle himself fast enough and thinks he might have punched himself in the balls just a little bit. Mikey jerks him off hard and fast and fucking dry, just the wrong side of a little bit painful, not that Pete is actually going to say anything because he is _so close_ and he comes in the dirt right next to where he'd spat out his mouthful of Mikey.

Pete opens his mouth to say something, when he can, wants to say sorry, but the second he swallows and opens his mouth Mikey twists away and punches the button so the bus door hisses open for him.

"Shut up, Pete," Mikey says without turning around.

Pete shuts up and lets him go.

The fuck of it is, Pete thinks, still leaning one handed against the bus and letting his head hang forward, panting, is that might actually be the best sex they ever had. He is such a fucking dick.

* * *

**TEN**

When you're touring with someone you get kinda easily wound up by their little tics and defects. Bob _knows_ that. He knows this job. So it's not a surprise to find himself ticked off with a couple of traits in his own band after so long on the road:

Like the omnipresent WayFunk of alcohol-laced sweat and the Way family chemical make-up, or mysteriously migrating shoes, or the _look_ of early-morning Ray. Most of all, the spitting is beginning to test his supremely easy-going nature.

Frank's pretty disgusting at times. The peak of those times is when Frank's digging his knees into Bob's armpits, hanging on pretty much by Bob's hair, and they're on a mission, in search of more liquor because the black hole in Gerard's bowels consumed the bus-load while no one was looking, and Frank _spits_.

And because Frank is drunker than a Republican in a whorehouse he fails spectacularly to clear his projectile from their immediate radius and in fact from his own face; it dribbles over Frank's chin (Bob guesses, he can't actually see), and lands with a horrible wet _splut_ right in the inner edge of Bob's fucking _ear_.

He's so grossed out that he more or less dumps Frank on his ass and runs off to stick Q-tips in his ear for about an hour. After that the whole spitting thing really starts to show up on his radar more and more.

They're onstage, a break between Vampires Will Never Hurt You and, uh, oh yeah, Cemetery Drive, and Frank takes a mouthful of water and just sprays it joyously over the crowd like a fucking broken hydrant; they're on the _bus_ and Frank hawks one up and gobs it into Gerard's toothbrush mug from a distance of like three feet (Mikey applauds, which Bob doesn't think is particularly fucking helpful); they're greedily dissembling late-night pizza outside the bus, on the steps, and Frank puts Bob off his food possibly _forever_ by shooting a jet of saliva out into the dark before he starts eating.

"Fucking quit it," he tells Frank in the relative privacy of the bus bathroom, once Frank's just fucking spattered come at him from between his teeth the third time. He puts all his Big Scary Bob voice behind it, this command, and looks right down into Frank's pretty, piss-covered face which doesn't carry one iota of contrition. "I _mean_ it," Bob confirms, wiping his own come off his chest with the end of Frank's tie. "_Stop_."

"No," Frank says. He's not meant to be talking, either, so Bob slaps him. Frank just grins and dribbles out of the side of his mouth.

"Stop spitting," he repeats.

"Nope." Frank peers up at him through wet, ammonia-scented eyelashes and dribbly stage make-up that's streaked with skin-trails from where his eyes have watered. He looks fucking gorgeous apart from the bit where he's saying _nope_.

"Seriously fucking stop," Bob suggests, untying Frank's tie from around the faucet (why he tied it there, he can't remember. Something to do with trying to avoid pissing on it) and winding it around his hand in a vaguely threatening, boxer-binding-his-hands gesture.

"Nuh-uh." Frank beams at him.

There are too many things he wants to do to Frank, all at once, for him to actually be able to say any goddamn thing else. This calls, Bob thinks, for a change in tactics. "Stay."

He stumbles out of the bathroom, tucking his dick back into his pants, and snatches up the nearest pack of smokes. They're not his, his are _hidden_ because he is not dumb, but he'll pay back whoever he just stole from later – his is a higher purpose. Kinda.

Bob gets his lighter out of his pocket and ducks back in; Frank is where he left him, kneeling in the shower stall looking so fucking hot all dirty and dishevelled that Bob kinda wishes he could piss all over him again. And again. And again. And rub up against him like some sort of animal.

He lights up. Frank watches from the shower tray with silent, jiggly-thighed curiosity. Bob wonders if spiking him with Ritalin would help; probably not. He takes one or two pulls on the cigarette to get it glowing cherry-bright, then holds it up, ember ceilingwards, so's Frank can see just what's up.

"Every time you spit from now on, I am going to stick this into something of yours," Bob says gravely. "Until you quit fucking doing it."

Frank's only response is to hawk a loogie at Bob's foot.

Bob unwinds Frank's tie from his hand. It's a nice tie, or it was until Bob used it to mop up recycled jizz and phlegm off his chest, and wrapped it around his sweating fist. It's about to get a little less nice.

Dangling the tie above Frank's face, Bob swoops his hand in with the cigarette, like some dad trying to shovel veggies into his reluctant toddler, _here comes the airplane_, only it's _here comes the burning pain_, and he sizzles the cigarette's cherry against the nylon (okay, it's not _that_ nice of a tie) slowly.

It's not vastly effective because the tie sort of flops away from the cigarette end, but with Frank frowning at him for a good few minutes Bob finally gets a decent burn hole in the end of Frank's tie. When that's accomplished he puts the smoke back in his mouth, drops the tie in Frank's lap, and leaves without another word.

* * *

It's not even another couple of days before Bob's just chilling on the grass with sunglasses and a bitch fucking hangover, and Frank comes out of the bus with Bob's shoes in his hands.

There's a moment, a little electric spark in the air and Bob Bryar can goddamn read minds.

Frank holds up the shoes, spits decisively into each of them in turn, grins at Bob, _waves with his fingers_ and bounces back into the bus.

It takes considerable effort to burn a proper hole in the tops of Frank's sneakers but Bob _does_ it, frowning in concentration while Frank watches him with his hands on his head.

"I said, _quit it_," Bob says.

* * *

The next victim is Bob's shirt. He's not wearing it at the time, but he _is_ standing right behind Frank when Frank spits out the side of his mouth like a freaking llama and hits that shirt right on the collar.

The temptation to smack him upside the head is quite strong. Bob refrains. He just sits down calmly on the sofa, Frank's favourite shirt spread across his knees like a grandmother's quilt, and with all the precision of said grandmother fixing slipped stitches he burns Orion into the front of that shirt with his cigarette. The smell of scorched cotton fills the bus.

Frank stares down at him with big sad eyes and legs that won't keep still and looks hurt.

"I was gonna wear that tonight," he complains.

"You're gonna wear it anyway," Bob instructs.

And he does. He honest to fucking gods _does_.

* * *

Frank spits on:

Bob's towel

Bob's pants

Bob's underpants

And

Bob's pizza

Bob takes a lit cigarette to:

Frank's towel (it smells of come, Bob realises, and if they weren't touring he'd have been vaguely grossed out by this, because no matter how sexy-times fresh come is, crusts of old come in something you're meant to clean yourself with is Not Good).

Frank's pants (he makes him take them off first, and stretches the crotch over his hands in the bathroom, still warm with Frank's body-heat, and Bob forces himself to do this first, before anything else, before he lets himself piss, before he lets himself come, before he lets Frank come).

Frank's underpants (these he burns while they're stretched taut half-way down Frank's thighs. It's meant to be a threat, it's meant to mean that Bob's hand could slip at any minute and burn his leg, but Frank just grins from ear to ear and plants a messy kiss on Bob's neck, and that's it, Bob guesses. They really do trust each other a lot).

… after the pizza thing Bob pretty much drags him away by his armpits while everyone else is laughing with a disgusted timbre because _dude_ Frank spat on the slice of pizza Bob was just about to put into his mouth. No one follows them, because they have pizza and Bob has a slice of tomato-soggy cardboard that is covered in Frank-drool, and Bob points into the bathroom like he's tell off a bad dog and Frank gets right the fuck in there with a dazzling smile.

"Clothes off." Bob says, when the door is shut.

Frank's apparently auditioning for some role as a speed-stripper. He's naked in the blink of an eye, calmly - _cheerfully_ \- handing his pants and his underpants and his shirt to Bob in a big pile. Bob throws them out of the door. Frank can fucking scrabble for them later.

"Gimme your arm," Bob adds, lighting up. He swears he's getting through more cigarettes now than ever before. "Frank, you're giving me fucking cancer," he says evenly, pulling hard on the end of this latest, and Frank presents his arm, inner-side up.

For a moment Bob just runs his thumb over the soft skin, over Frank's ink, as he sucks down smoke and heats up the ember to a tiny volcano. He looks Frank in the eye and says, "Don't spit on my goddamn fucking food."

He puts the end of the cigarette against Frank's arm, right over where he's already marked with an anatomically correct heart, stabbed with a knife, and holds it over the skin, close enough to blister, closer enough to burn, watching Frank's face for any sign that he's genuinely suffering and wants it to stop, ready to whip the cigarette away at a second's notice and hurl it into the sink (and probably, if he's honest, kiss it better as well).

Frank twitches a little in Bob's grip but he doesn't say squat. He just smiles and says, "Okay."

It's the same fucking day when he spits on Bob, on stage.

* * *

They just got done with Headfirst For Haloes. Bob's tapping his foot in preparation for the next song while Gerard gives his little Teenage Suicide Don't Do It speech like they're all in fucking _Heathers_, and Frank walks over to the drums without so much as a pretext or a skip, stands on the other side of the kit, and smiles at Bob.

Bob frowns.

Frank tips his head back and fires a gob of saliva up in a beautiful, mathematically perfect arc that lands it slap in the middle of Bob's hair, flashes him an eyebrows-raised smile, a What're You Gonna Do _Now_ smile, and walks with the same flair-free determination back to the front of the stage in time for a kiss on the forehead from Gerard.

Bob plays the rest of the set with saliva drying in his hair.

He washes the spit out in the bathroom later, with slow and pointed hand movements while Frank stands naked – shivering a bit but still grinning like a fucking Jack-o-lantern so it's hard to pity him – in the shower tray, his hands tucked up in his armpits. "My fucking _hair_," Bob laments.

He's got a whole pack, a fresh pack, right there in his hip pocket because he knows Frank's not going to stop this shit no matter how much Bob asks or tells him to. He lights up, clumsy and quick, nearly burning his own fingers. So far no one's got enough of a sense of smell to have complained about the stink of cigarettes and the greater-than-usual stench piss; so _far_.

Cigarette lit, he says, "Hands behind your back."

And Frank, obedient as he is over everything that doesn't involve _not spitting_, twists his hands around each other like they're tied there by something more tangible than Bob's say-so.

Bob holds the lit end up for Frank to see. He has to admit he kinda enjoys this bit, the look on Frank's face, the waiting, the inevitability. "Don't _spit_ on me, Frank," he says firmly.

Frank dips his head to gob on Bob's shoe.

Bob thinks about this for a while. He runs his fingers over Frank's chest, over his breast-bone, and Frank watches not his hand but his face, just watches with his tongue running pink and wet and profane over his teeth, over his lips. He twists up briefly in pain, and Bob's two halves of a Bob, one half excited and one half horrified.

The cigarette leaves a brown-red circle dead centre between Frank's nipples, like a third nipple. Bob realises they're gonna have to keep that from Gerard unless they want the drinky fruitloop to decide that Frank's a witch, and try to duck him in the next pond they pass.

He drops the unfinished cigarette in the sink and pats Frank on the shoulder, getting a wide-eyed rabbit look for his trouble.

"I'll put a Band-Aid on it," Bob assures him.

* * *

Not that it makes any difference. The next goddamn show, Frank just saunters over and makes like he's going to whisper something to Bob. The day is too fucking hot for Bob to do much and he's kind of in the middle of playing; Frank is _too_ but that doesn't stop the little prick from spitting right … in … Bob's … fucking … _EAR_.

Bob has no fucking idea how he manages to keep on playing because he's pretty sure he nearly leaps off his stool, nearly lashes out automatically.

Holy shit this must be what it's like to be Patrick Stump –

\- he contains himself. He's taller than Patrick, goddamnit, and he only plays drums. They're nothing alike - Bob catches Frank blowing him a kiss as he sashays, guitar slung low, back to the front of the stage – and most importantly of all, _Frank is not Pete Wentz_. No matter how antagonistic he's trying to be.

Of course Bob's still got to deal with that whole spitting thing. He still has saliva in his _ear_ in the least sexy and least adorable way imaginable. Bob resists the urge to shake his head like a dog with a flea in its ear.

This time he doesn't even bother waiting for them to get back to the bus, just points Frank against the first pretend-wall they come to and says, "What the fuck?"

Frank shrugs. "Need a light?" He's bouncier than one of those little rubber balls you get free in cereal.

"Not here. What the fuck, Frank, that was my _ear_."

People are giving them curious looks. Travis gives them such a long curious look that he almost slips over on the duckboards that have been laid out over the crunchy summer grass and inexplicable foul-smelling mud that has sprung up despite the dryness. Bob gets a smoke out of the back and taps the end down on the back of his head like a heartbeat, up_down_.

"What the fuck," he repeats.

"What the fuck, 'what the fuck'?" Frank echoes, confused. It's possible they're going to continue in this vein _forever_, Bob realises. They're going to be standing here by this pretend wall of big metal sheets when the end of the world comes.

Which is when Frank just whips off his shirt, _right there in front of the whole fucking world_, and hands it in a crumpled, stage-sweaty mess to Bob. "Need a light?" he repeats.

The unlit cigarette is of course now fucking ruined underneath a shirt which could only be wetter, really, if Bob pissed on it, but that's not the point.

"Seriously, what the," Bob says with all the articulation of a man who has just had the world stood on its head. "Why with the. In my fucking _ear_, dude."

Frank smiles prettily and says, "Juuuuuuust claiming what's mine. Like, your _brains_ and shit. Do you need a light?"

Bob all but drags him back to the bus, shirtless, and bundles him onto the sofa – no one else seems to be around yet. Which is kinda handy, because the sort of prolonged and intense make-out session he has in mind won't fit in the bathroom, and may just raise a few eyebrows if anyone happens to wander in; Frank already has his fingers hooked over Bob's belt, and the red plastic lighter clenched between his laughing teeth.

* * *

**ELEVEN**

"Frankie, I'm hungry," Gerard is dying of hunger. He actually truly is. The kind of hunger only the truly drunk and stoned can appreciate.

"Gerard, I don't care," Frank says back, mimicking Gerard's deathly ill tone.

"You're heartless, Frankie," Gerard complains, making sure Frank knows damn well what the situation is, "you have no heart. You're like the motherfucking Grinch."

"I don't think the Grinch had a mother," Bob says.

"That's why he always fucked yours," Frank says and pokes his tongue out at Bob.

"The Grinch had a heart, it was just three sizes too small or whatever," Mikey adds, morose and monotone. Worse than usual. Gerard frowns, makes a note to talk to like Pete or someone, but is totally distracted when his stomach rumbles.

"Mikey," he whines, turning his saddest eyes on him, "I'm hungry."

"I don't have anything, Gee," Mikey says. At least he sounds genuinely sorry. Unlike those mean motherfuckers he shares a band with and their cruel, cruel jibes.

"I forgive you, Mikey. Even if I can't feel my legs and will starve to death trapped here and one day a young band will buy this bus and find my skeleton and-"

Frank pinches his thigh, hard. "I can feel your legs," he says, and grins with both rows of teeth.

Gerard yelps, slowly. "Ow, fuck! Motherfucker!" Frank is such a fucking. Frank.

"Frank, don't you have junk stashed somewhere?" Ray pipes up from the studio.

"Frank has a stash he's hiding from us?" Gerard asks. He is outraged.

"It's not _junk_, it's important shit that I could need at _any moment_, okay?" Frank snaps, and he actually sounds a little huffy about it.

"What the fuck, Frankie, you're holding out on me?" Gerard is totally, totally outraged.

"It's a... fucking, first aid kit okay," Frank says awkwardly, looking at the ceiling. "I am _prepared_."

"A first aid kit with lube," Bob supplies and smacks Frank's hands away when they go for his sides.

"Shut the fuck up, Bob," Frank says, but it comes out more like "shut the fk p ob," because Bob's hand is over his mouth.

"Lube? What the fuck?" Ray yells from the studio, "last time I found it there was Oreos."

"I just like to be prepared," Frank says, mouth free but both hands caught by Bob at the wrists. He pokes his tongue out at Bob. Bob pokes his tongue out back, and there are teeth.

"What, do you like, are you like some kind of gay porn Boy Scout Frankie, what the hell?" Gerard asks, because this is like a revelation and shit. Frank has been seriously holding out on him! There shouldn't be secrets in this band, that's like. It's like betrayal. This is the worst news.

"Frank Iero: gay porn Boy Scout," Bob snorts, finally letting Frank's arms go as he goes limp. He puts his hands behind his head.

"You know," Frank says, his voice scarily contemplative.

"No," Bob says. "Just, no." _No_ is like Bob's favourite word. Gerard's noticed this. It's very mean.

All of which has distracted Gerard from his original point, which was: "I'm hungry, you heartless motherfuckers!"

But no one is actually listening, and Ray has switched up the volume on a new mix of something they’ve been working on.

Gerard rights himself (several times before he gets steady on his feet, and one more stumble as he crosses the jumble of legs in front of him like some kind of fucking obstacle course for the drunken rockstar) and stumbles into the bunks. He is going to find Frank's Boy Scout stash and fuck his shit up. It is revenge! Great vengeance for them ignoring the needs of their lead singer. And betraying his band with secrets and lies. And what if he died of starvation?

He has mental images of Frank taking over vocals and turning MCR into some kind of hardcore band, screaming "I'm Not Okay" like it's being covered by _Black Flag_, oh fuck. Gerard falls over a pile of socks and comics with a thump and a giggle into Frank's bunk and digs around until- of course. Shoved down the side of his mattress is a little metal box with a medic’s red cross on it (it looks like a prop from Ghost of You, which it probably is) and inside… there is no food. There are Band-Aids and tissues and cold and flu tablets and about three full packets of cigarettes and wet wipes and for some reason burn cream, what the hell Frankie is such a hold out.... ing... douche, and at the bottom there are several little sachets that are labelled (most importantly) "_strawberry_" and, er, "water based non-toxic".

Gerard contemplates the little packets for a second, before thinking _fuck it_, and opening one with his teeth. Strawberry!

It actually tastes... pretty good.

Not _actually_ of strawberries or even of the chemical shit that's meant to taste of strawberry in strawberry-flavour milkshakes and shit but it tastes pretty cool.

Back on the couch, Gerard plonks himself down between Frank and Bob, rolling his tongue around inside his mouth. "Found your stash," he says, and smiles at Frank.

Frank raises an eyebrow. Gerard throws an empty lube packet at his face, where it sticks damply on his cheek for a second before falling into his lap. There's a little shiny pink stain left just below Frank's eye; Gerard wags his tongue at Frank for a second, and that's gotta be covered in shiny pink too.

"Did you... did you actually," Frank sounds like he's choking, "did you actually _eat_ my fucking_lube_?"

"Whatever, man," Gerard says sagely, "the packet said 'strawberry'."

* * *

**TWELVE**

So it's like, early afternoon and Pete's just minding his own business. Well, mostly. He's actually playing this addictive Nintendo DS thing where you have to put rocks in holes and giggling a bit about it because he's treating the Gee-Sea-Aich's cooler as his own now, which means a lot of energy drinks have been coming out of the end of his dick.

But it's a quietish afternoon right now. The Gee-Sea-Aiches are having their sound-check and Pete has reached level fifteen of Putting Rocks In Holes With Catchy Repetitive Music Game, twinkle twinkle, and, yeah. Everything's alrightish, even if he's pretty sure he's going to get annoyed with the lack of attention any minute … now –

Patrick flops down next to him. Awesome. Perfect afternoon. Pete raises a hand without looking for a high-five and a bro-handshake. "Hey."

"So," Patrick says, staring into middle-distance – and _fuck_, wrong rock in wrong hole. Beep beep beep beeeep.

"Hey," Pete repeats, "what?"

"So," Patrick says, and Pete wonders if they're going to like sit here until their sound-check, just saying _so_ and _hey_ like two fucking parrots.

"Uh-huh," Pete says, trying to recover from bad rock-fall in time to not have to start all over again, his elbows everywhere, Patrick radiating disapproval the way the Ways radiate WayFunk.

"So, Gerard came and talked to me in metaphors about sadness and loneliness and marriage," Patrick says evenly, and Pete pretends he didn't hear him and that his insides did not just make a dive for the floor.

"Uh-huh."

"And I _think_ it might have something to do with … Pete, are you listening?"

"Uh-huh."

"I think it has something to do with Mikeyway, and you, and –"

Pete concentrates very hard on the DS and getting the rocks in the right holes, which kind of stops being so effective when Patrick bats the game out of his hand and sends it flying across the grass of their little chill-out spot. "_Hey_," Pete protests, about to scramble after it when Patrick's arm blocks his way.

"Pay attention."

"No, you pay – "

Patrick knocks him over. It's not a punch, exactly, more of an exasperated shove-pull that involves a handful of Pete's t-shirt scrunched up in his fist and leaves Patrick straddling him in the most comical and yet slightly threatening pose ever, and Pete starts giggling again.

"Was Gerard talking to me about you and Mikey?" Patrick snaps, holding Pete's t-shirt like some angry old dude picking a fight at a bus station.

"How the fuck would I know that?" Pete grumbles, "You made me lose that level. Get naked or get off."

"Was Gerard talking about you and Mikey?" Patrick repeats, his voice rising in pitch.

"Maybe. Yes. No. I don't know! GET OFF."

Patrick growls and releases the shirt. Awesome, he's going to get off and Pete can go and … hide in the bathroom in case this is the prelude to being talked at by someone else with Serious Things on their mind, probably.

He doesn't get off.

"SORT," Patrick says, accompanying the instruction with an open-handed slap to Pete's face that _really fucking stings_, - SMACK - "YOURSELF." Which is also punctuated with a hefty slap, this time from the other direction, a back-hander. "OUT."

_Smack_.

Pete knows better than to say, "HEY!" again at this point, but he does it anyway, because he's Pete, and _shouldn't_ is not a word that rests for long in his vocabulary.

The sermon doesn't appear to be over yet; Patrick gives him another almighty smack in the face and yells, "BECAUSE I _NEVER_ WANT TO SIT THROUGH A DRUNK GERARD LECTURE AGAIN," right in his ear.

There's a moment where Pete knows he could say, "He can tell me himself next time," and a moment where he knows he could say something about Mikey having the balls to just say it, but the weight of the hypocrisy is too fucking huge for even him; so he just squirms about under Patrick, humps his hips skywards, ignoring his aching face, and says, "Oh, screw Mikey, I just wanna fuck _you_ -"

Which is when Patrick lands him a proper punch and knocks his nose bloody.

* * *

**THIRTEEN**

It's so good to finally be sleeping in an actual fucking building that at first the boys have no idea what to do; Mikey's on a borrowed cell talking to Pete in frustrated tones so everyone kinda … _avoids_ him in case something happens, but fortunately for everyone there is a solution to hand in the form of Gerard Way's Magical Jack Daniels Bottle of Magic And Bourbon. Magic because it never seems to get totally empty no matter how much they drink.

The other theory is that there are a lot of replacement bottles, but after several rounds no one actually gives any kind of a shit.

Bob's bladder nags at him after maybe four shots of burning amber. He's kinda freaked to discover that now it's automatic, he doesn't think _I need to piss_ anymore, he thinks it with the suffix, the rider, _on Frank. Now._ Just how quickly he's become used to, almost addicted to, that act … it's kinda scary.

So he bails on the party, dragging Frank behind him with nothing more than a meaningful look. Now _that's_ power.

"Why are you wearing a neckerchief?" he manages as he begins a quite desperate fight with his room door and key card, more drunk than he realised.

Frank has knotted a skull-patterned bandana which is probably not his into some sort of hick-like neckerchief and he looks _stupid_. Only, because he is _Frank_, he also looks hot. And stupid. Stupidly hot.

Bob's bladder makes complaining twinges and he finally gets the door open just as Frank explains, "I'm a boy scout," in the voice of Ralph Wiggum.

"Down," Bob says urgently, "clothes off." He's going to stink up the carpet; he doesn't fucking care. It's only him and Frank who have to sleep in here and it’s only the one night that they have to. Bob doesn't even shut the door properly as Frank wriggles out of his jeans, hurls them across the room (they're really going to have to work on that, only _not right now_ \- maybe he'll use the cigarette) and humps his shirt off over his head without undoing it (they're gonna have to work on _that_, too) without taking off the stupid boy scout scarf thing.

It's not worth commenting on it now; Bob unzips, Frank hits his knees in one go, his dick slapping against his thigh all stage-sweaty and rank. He tips his head back, his throat long and _almost_ bare, the scorpion standing guard over his jugular. Frank's mouth is open like a birdbath, like a fucking _urinal_ – he's started doing that lately. Bob didn't ask for it but _fuck_ it's too hot to chastise him for. Bob aims to miss most times, but there's something in the way that Frank blinks and half-gags when some trickles in by accident that just totally wires up Bob's balls; Frank doesn't _like_ the taste, he doesn't _want_ it in his mouth, but he's doing it anyway because he knows that it'll get Bob hot. Which is, in itself, the sacrifice, fucking hot.

He's almost at the crisis point: Too Hard To Piss, by the time he lets fly, and the relief of emptying his bladder is almost equal to how fucking awesome Frank looks being hit in the face and chest by an almost endless steam of piss. It splashes off Frank's throat and soaks away into the 'kerchief, it runs down over his crunched-up belly and onto his thighs, into his pubes, polishing up his ink like a wax buff job.

For a little while he just stares, wishing he'd been specific enough to get Frank to take the stupid goddamn scarf off, but then Frank rocks forwards on his knees and starts licking the last drops off Bob's dick with this expression of total Buddhist serenity and Bob's so freaking hard he's afraid his head's going to implode from lack of blood.

"Lube," he croaks, because right now all he can think of is getting Frank's dirty-sweaty-marked-stinky-_his_ body closer and burying himself up to the balls in it; marking up his insides with come like he marked up the outsides with piss.

Frank leaps up like a spring-loaded toy and grabs his jeans from the bedside table, going through all the pockets with this incredible efficiency that no one would have expected of him except that it's typically fucking manic.

"I … uh, I'm pretty sure I had a load of sachets, and now they're not there," Frank complains a few seconds later, his hand still stuck in the last pocket. He looks confused; Bob feels pretty fucking confused himself but he guesses it hits Frank the same time it hits him, because a light goes on behind his big beautiful eyes and with an angry howl of "GER_AR_D," Frank Iero bolts out of the door.

Naked but for his makeshift scout scarf, covered in Bob's piss, and his erection bouncing around like crowd-surfer … oh _shit_.

Bob sticks his head cautiously out the door in time to see Frank streak down the hotel corridor to Gerard's door and bang on it with angry, _pissy_ fists.

"GERARD YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE," Frank explains in calm and rational tones that sound a lot like someone screaming his drunk lungs out, "EAT _REAL FOOD_, QUIT EATING MY FUCKING LUBE – "

Leaning on the doorframe, half-naked and still horny as fucking hell, Bob decides that this episode in his increasingly weird life is also going down as being Pete's Fault, Do Not Revisit.

* * *

_There is a moral to this story. There is a moral to all stories. The moral to this one, the moral of this story, is never to follow Pete's lead on anything. Just don't. It ends in pee, if it didn't start there._

END.

* * *


End file.
